The Brynthwaite Boys

Episode Three – A Difficult Decision

Marshall

Sunshine on a sad day was the bitterest of ironies. The churchyard was awash in cheerful afternoon light. The choicest of blooms stood out on bushes and in neatly-kept flower beds. Clouds rolled lazily through the heavens and birds chattered merrily. It was the most jolly setting for a funeral that Marshall could possibly imagine.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” another in the long line of mourners came up to comfort him as she stood near the church door.

“Thank you.” Marshall gave them the requisite nod and accepted the hand of the gentleman of the pair, but he wasn’t quite sure of who they were or why they, of all people, were wishing him well. He didn’t deserve to be wished well.

“You must be so worried for your girls,” another well-wisher spoke to him in soft, condescending tones. “Poor things, left without a mother.”

“We’ll manage,” Marshall said, or thought he said. He didn’t care enough to pay attention.

He rested a hand on Martha’s head. She’d been clinging to his leg since the service ended. Mary and Molly were making the rounds through the crowd of those who had come to express their condolences. He thought he’d seen Mary with a tray of something, offering refreshments like a servant to ungrateful masters. The sight would have pushed him to rage, if he’d had any emotion left in him. They had all been wrung out, every last one of them.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Another empty face. Another round of uselessness.

It was only when Alexandra stepped quietly up to his side that he pulled himself out of the stiff posture of grief to meet her eyes. She said nothing, only smiled. There was sympathy in that smile, but understanding too. He smoothed his hand over Martha’s hair and did his best to return that one smile.

“Mrs. Creswell said I should come tell you to send Martha to her,” Alexandra said. “To keep her out of your way.”

Martha heard the comment and whined, burying her face in her father’s side.

“Clara’s sister always was a bit of a sergeant-major,” he said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. “Thinks she can order everyone else about.”

Alexandra paused. “I take it your answer is no, then?”

He shook his head. Eileen had been kind to come up from London for her sister’s funeral—the lone representative of the Danforth clan, Clara’s family—but she saw that act as one of martyrdom. She was so much like her sister in that regard that the dull sting of misery threatened to choke Marshall again.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” Alexandra went on.

Marshall shook his head a second time. There wasn’t a single bloody thing that anyone could do for him, and yet that was the only thing that anyone asked him anymore.

“I should head back to the hospital then,” Alexandra said. “Lord only knows what’s become of the place with Mrs. Garforth in charge. She has probably set any patient without stitches or splints to scrubbing the floors.”

“Perhaps we should look into that in the future,” he said, knowing he was joking, but feeling it as though the joke were a thousand miles away. “It would cut expenses.”

“Don’t you worry about expenses for now,” Alexandra said. “Mother has issued a reprieve while you are in mourning. Both I and the hospital donations are safe until further notice.”

“Until further notice,” he echoed.

“You need only worry about resting and getting your sea legs back.” She ended her speech with a smile, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

That one small touch warmed him. He nodded to Alexandra. She returned the gesture, bent to kiss Martha’s head, even though the child didn’t look up at her, then turned to go. Martha sniffed and wiped her nose against the fabric of his pocket, then hugged his leg tighter.

“Poor motherless thing,” he murmured.

He would have picked her up and held her, but another pair of well-wishers, elderly sisters, approached him.

“We’re so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

If things kept going like this, he would be able to skate through the rest of his life without ever having to think about things again. It would certainly make human interactions that much easier.

“Marshall, what do you think you’re doing?” The snap in Eileen’s voice was as sharp as the one in Clara’s, but at a deeper timbre. “You have guests to entertain. You shouldn’t be standing here, sheltering a selfish, weeping child.”

He glanced up to meet Eileen with a sudden spike of rage. “She’s upset. She doesn’t understand any of this,” he defended his youngest.

Eileen clucked and shook her head. “Honestly. Men know nothing about children. You overindulge Clara’s girls.”

“I would remind you, Eileen, that they’re my girls too,” Marshall told her, trying desperately to keep his voice down for Martha’s sake.

“And we’ve always known you would ruin them,” Eileen fired back. There wasn’t a shred of sympathy in her pinched face. Why would there be? That entire family blamed him for ruining Clara. “Martha!” Eileen barked.

Marshall felt his daughter gulp and tense. He stroked her head and rested his hand on her shoulder, but it didn’t do her any good.

“Come here at once, child.” Eileen grabbed hold of Martha’s hand and tugged her away from Marshall’s side.

Martha cried out, and even though Marshall’s heart broke, he said, “It’s all right, my sweet. Go with your auntie Eileen.”

Eileen sniffed. “It’s Aunt Eileen. I won’t stand for any of these provincial nomenclatures.”

“I don’t want to go,” Martha squeaked.

“Really,” Eileen huffed.

“She’ll take you to get a glass of punch,” Marshall coaxed, then met Eileen’s eyes and said, “You will take her to get a glass of punch.”

Eileen sighed. “Well, if you wish.”

Marshall watched them walk across the churchyard, feeling as though his heart was being pulled away from him. He was supposed to be grateful that Eileen had come to help. She had reminded him of that every second of every day of the last week since Clara had died. It was his duty to be prostrate with gratitude even more than with grief.

“When is she going home?”

Lawrence’s question made Marshall realize he’d been glaring daggers at Eileen’s back for more than a minute. He hadn’t even heard his friend approach.

“She won’t say,” he told Lawrence with more vinegar to his tone than he intended. “She claims she’ll stay as long as she’s needed.”

“By which score she should have left yesterday?” Lawrence suggested.

Marshall replied with a knowing look. He glanced on to Matty, who stood, silent and unobtrusive, slightly behind Lawrence. Her bruises were healing well, and she looked a damned sight better, not to mention several years older, wearing a proper dress, even if it was second-hand.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Matty said. When she said them, the words held all of the genuine feeling they were supposed to.

Marshall softened his expression and nodded to her. “Thank you. Are you getting along well at the forge?” It was about time he thought about someone else’s problems.

Matty answered with a nod and a shy smile.

“She’s been extraordinarily helpful,” Lawrence said. “Memory or no, it turns out she’s a fantastic cook.”

“Oh?” Marshall could see that his friend was more than pleased with that prospect. Then again, Lawrence was the easiest person to please that he knew. He glanced back to Matty. “So no progress on remembering things.”

“No.” Matty shook her head, but she didn’t seem as distressed by the prospect as he would have been in her place. All the more reason to think that whatever she had to remember was best left forgotten.

“Papa.” Mary stepped up to his side, the tray of cakes she had been passing nearly empty. She offered it to Matty and Lawrence as she spoke. “Aunt Eileen needs to go.”

“I know, my pet,” he said, squeezing her shoulder, the bubble of rage, buffered by grief, in his chest expanding.

“She has Martha in tears over at the refreshment table,” Mary went on. “Martha dropped a glass of juice and Aunt Eileen is shouting at her, saying that she’s a disgrace. And when Molly tried to help clean her up, she raised a hand to her.”

The urge to kill welled up in Marshall so fast that he lost his breath. “Did she hit Molly?”

“No,” Mary rushed to say when she saw the upset in his eyes. “She only raised her hand. Then she put it down again.”

“Does Molly need help?” Matty asked.

Mary turned to her, studying Matty with all the seriousness of a grown woman.

“Mary, dear, this is Matty. She’s staying with Mr. Smith for a time,” Marshall introduced them. “Matty, this is my eldest, Mary.”

“How do you do?” Mary nodded with perfect politeness.

“Well, thank you,” Matty answered. “Can I help you?”

Mary hesitated. She glanced to Marshall. Marshall nodded, and Mary echoed the nod for Matty. The two of them started off toward the refreshment table together.

“Eileen has got to go,” Marshall repeated Mary’s words when Lawrence swung around to stand next to him, arms crossed.

“The sooner the better,” he agreed. “Perhaps the girls could spend some time at the forge, now that I’ve got Matty there to keep an eye on them. The fresh air will do them a world of good,” he thought aloud.

Marshall was sure he should have had some sort of instant opinion on the suggestion, but he didn’t. “Perhaps. Let me work on giving Eileen the boot first.”

“Dr. Pycroft.” They were interrupted by the approach of Mayor Crimpley and his wife, both looking supremely elegant in their mourning dress. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Already, Marshall’s attention began to drift. Eileen would have to be told to leave firmly, but with enough delicacy not to shut the door to London forever. She was family to his girls, after all, and his girls had a right to know the only family they had.

“Clara was such a dear woman,” Mrs. Crimpley was saying. “Such a tragedy.”

Marshall nodded. It was what Mayor Crimpley said that sparked his interest, though.

“Smith, what’s this I hear about you pestering Constable Kirke about missing person reports for the county?” the mayor asked.

Lawrence stiffened at Marshall’s side. “Just that,” he said. “I’ve been inquiring as to who in the county has been reported missing.”

“Why?” Mayor Crimpley narrowed his eyes.

Lawrence met him stare for stare. The years of enmity between the two of them went back to well before Marshall had returned to town. It went back to childhood, if his suspicions were correct. Unlucky for Lawrence, he couldn’t answer that it was none of Crimpley’s business, because, as mayor, to an extent it was.

“I am attempting to discover if someone is missing.” Lawrence gave the vaguest answer he could.

“It’s that young woman you’ve been seen about town with, isn’t it?” Crimpley pressed on. “The straggler.”

“Her name is Matty,” Lawrence growled.

Marshall’s brow twitched up. At this rate, they would have another death on their hands.

Guilt over joking at a time like this squeezed the air out of his lungs.

“All inquiries about legal business should be directed through the proper channels, Smith,” the mayor said.

“And so they will be, Crimpley.” Lawrence crossed his arms.

“What’s going on here?”

Jason strode in to join their tense group. He was easily the tallest of their band of friends, and dressed in jet black, his coat buttoned tight as usual, his top-hat gleaming in the sun, adding inches to his height, he looked a bit like an undertaker.

“Mr. Throckmorton,” Mrs. Crimpley broke the deadly tension between Lawrence and the mayor. “How good to see you again. I heard all about the delightful tea you hosted for Lady Elizabeth and Lady Charlotte last week.”

“Mrs. Crimpley.” Jason took Mrs. Crimpley’s outstretched hand like the fishing bait it was and bowing over it.

“I so wish I could have been there,” she went on. “It would have been such a delight to be one of the chosen few admitted into the inner sanctum before the grand opening next week.”

In other words, Marshall thought to himself with a smirk, Jason should have invited her.

“If I had only know, I would have issued you an invitation, Mrs. Crimpley,” Jason replied with all the grace of a diplomat. “I would invite you in the coming week, but, alas, the gardens are all now freshly installed, and there is a great deal of settling that needs to be done before they no longer cause mud to be tracked everywhere.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Crimpley blinked rapidly, as though that was no excuse at all.

“Yes. I would hate for you to sully your beautiful and stylish gowns.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Crimpley replied, suddenly knowing. “How very kind of you, Mr. Throckmorton. How very thoughtful. I shall eagerly await the grand opening ball, then.”

“What’s this about the grand opening ball?”

This time it was Lady Elizabeth, her lady’s maid in tow as usual, and Lady Charlotte who interrupted and enlarged their party. No wonder Jason had gravitated in this direction. He tensed and turned a shade of red that Marshall could only describe as panic puce. Lawrence shot him an amused glance to tell him he’d noticed too. It was fine with Marshall. He could damn well do with some entertainment, and Jason’s fawning over Lady Elizabeth was the most comical show in town.

“Lady Elizabeth.” Jason reached out for the lady’s hand, his own shaking slightly. When Lady E. didn’t take it right away, he snapped his hand back as though he’d been burned, and clasped his hands behind his back. “It is good to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Throckmorton,” Lady E. replied with a smile, moving her hand up too late to shake his. She blinked, then lowered it. Jason flushed even darker. “We are so looking forward to your hotel opening,” she said as if nothing had gone awry.

“We shall be attending too, Lady Elizabeth,” Mrs. Crimpley told her with the gleam in her eyes that can only be found when one woman is trying to impress another of a higher rank. She may have been the mayor’s wife, but in her younger years, Maude Crimpley had been a schoolteacher.

“We shall all have a grand time, I know it,” Lady E. said. She spared a brief smile for Jason—which Jason lapped up like a starving dog—then turned to Marshall, her face falling to the appropriate expression of sympathy. “I am so sorry for your loss, Dr. Pycroft.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And I am determined to have that wretched intersection investigated,” she went on, twice as energetic. She turned to Mayor Crimpley. “Our town’s roads have been a disgrace for too long, Mayor Crimpley. Has anything been done to check the speed of the vehicles that go charging through the High and Lake Streets crossing?”

“Well…I…my lady,” Mayor Crimpley fumbled. He turned his own shade of Jason’s panicked color. “I do not know.”

“I should like to open a formal investigation as soon as possible, then,” Lady E. went on. “It is the least we can do to comfort poor Dr. Pycroft and those who have suffered similar accidents at the intersection. For as I understand, Mayor Crimpley, this is not the first time we have had an incident like this.”

“Quite right,” Jason added, looking like a fool trying to elbow into the conversation.

“My lady, I would be open to any and all suggestions you might have,” Crimpley said, looking anything but. “Perhaps we could discuss this over tea some afternoon?”

“Yes,” Lady E. said with a bright smile. “This afternoon. There is tea right over there, in the shade. Shall we walk?”

She held out her arm to the mayor, and Crimpley was forced to take it. He paused before being led off to say to Lawrence, “I will talk to you later.”

“Dr. Pycroft,” Lady Charlotte hung back as her niece walked on. “You have my deepest condolences.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Considering the way he’d spoken to her last time they met, those condolences were not a guarantee. She nodded to him, unsmiling and full of threat, before walking away.

“What bee flew up her bonnet?” Lawrence asked.

Marshall snorted. “Apparently, I’m a bad influence on her daughter, and I have conspired to wrench her away from the life she should be living.”

“Lady Charlotte is a harridan,” Jason growled. Now that Lady E. had turned her back on him, he shifted from one foot to the other like a caged tiger ready to gnaw off a limb.

Marshall twisted to stare fully at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything,” Jason growled. He rolled his shoulders and shook out his hands, flushed as if he had a fever.

Marshall frowned at him. “Is that so?”

Jason glanced to him, and in an instant his friend’s face lit with embarrassment. “Marshall, I’m so sorry. My problems mean nothing on a day like this. You know I’m just a colossal idiot.”

“Yes, I do,” Marshall replied, feeling far more grateful to his friend than he needed Jason to know.

“I will do a better job of ignoring my pain and being here to support you,” Jason said.

“Pain?” Lawrence frowned.

“Don’t listen to him,” Marshall warned. “He’s fishing for sympathy is all.”

“I’m not—” Jason started, anger replacing his embarrassment. He took a breath and let that drop. “I’m not going to get into that discussion with you today.”

“Good.”

“Dr. Pycroft,” another crop of well-wishers approached. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Marshall said for the hundredth time.

“Mrs. Pycroft was such a dear soul.”

“Yes, she was,” he answered because he had to. A sudden wave of nausea overtook him. The truth was bitter enough to turn his stomach.

Suddenly, the well-meaning banter of his friends, the self-serving sympathy of those who had come to pay their respects, even the depressing sight of his daughters and Matty doing their best to hold their own against Aunt Eileen was too much for him to face. If they knew the truth, they would all recoil from him in horror.

“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me.” He nodded to his friends and turned to leave them to themselves.

“Marshall,” they each nodded and said their goodbyes, letting him go.

“What kind of pain are you in?” Marshall heard Lawrence ask Jason as the two headed off on their own path.

Marshall shook his head. Real or imaginary, pain was only as powerful as you believed it was. His own pain reached so deep that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to dig it out. He wanted to be alone, away from everyone who would curse his name if they found out what he really thought, about them, about life, about this town. About Clara.

His steps took him to the freshly piled dirt of Clara’s grave. There was nothing there but churned earth to mark her final resting place. After all that, the years of silly courtship, the shock of discovering married life—after the joy of bringing children into this world and the agony of losing two in infancy, all there was left of Clara now was a mound of dirt. It made him sick to think about, sick down to his soul.

Because he had never been so relieved in his life.

Flossie

The walk up the hill from Brynthwaite Post Office was arduous, but none of that mattered to Flossie. After she’d deposited her first wage packet from the hotel into a postal account and wired as much of it home as she dared, she’d been handed the ultimate reward, a letter from home. That made every step of her journey lighter.

She tore into the envelope addressed to “Miss Florence Stowe, The Dragon’s Head Hotel, Brynthwaite” with a giddy laugh. She hadn’t heard from her dear sister Betsy in weeks, and it had been pure luck that the letter had been given to her when she’d sent Betsy money. She couldn’t wait to hear what her sister had to say about home.

“Dear Flossie,” she read, heart beating in her throat. She slowed her steps and kept to the side of the path leading up the hill so that she could read and walk at the same time. “You can’t imagine the sorrow and heartbreak that had befallen us here at home after you have gone away.”

Flossie’s smile dropped. She swallowed and read on.

“Your visit here before traveling to Cumbria was far too short. We may have seemed happy, but dear Mother and Father were hiding the truth from you. And that truth is that we are so poor we can barely keep a roof over our heads.”

“Oh no,” Flossie gasped, slowing her steps even more. Things had seemed so happy in the week she’d spent at home between Crestmont Grange and Brynthwaite. Her papa had hugged her and danced with her to his own, off-key singing every few minutes. Her mother had smiled and told everyone how proud she was of her grown-up girl. Her nieces and nephews had laughed and played with her as they’d picked berries in the garden. They had all looked so well. How could she have missed the truth?

She read on. “Father is working as best he can, but they’ve cut his wages at the factory. Mother’s too. And you know me, with so many mouths to feed after Edward’s death, It’s more than I can do to keep the little ones in warm clothes. I don’t know what I shall do when the summer is through and it comes time to send them off to school again. I may have to send Ian to work in the factory along with Father.”

“No, you can’t,” Flossie gasped. Her nephew was too young, only seven, and he was such a bright lad. She knew if he kept up with his school work he could make something of himself, they all did.

“Oh Flossie,” the letter went on. “I’ve let this letter sit for a few days, and more sadness has befallen us. It seems that the little ones and the baby have fallen ill with the croup.”

Flossie gasped. She had to pause in her reading to cross the street and continue on along toward the walled churchyard.

“I managed to scrape together enough for medicines, so you needn’t fear on that account, but now our money is so badly depleted I don’t know what we shall do. Please, Flossie, please. If you can, send more. You’ve been so good and so kind to send us what you have already, but more is needed. Much more. I don’t know what I shall do if we don’t have enough money to pay the butcher, and Ian needs new boots. Please send all that you can. Your loving sister, Betsy.”

Heart pounding, Flossie read the letter again. Her throat closed up and tears stung at the back of her eyes. Her family. Her own dear family. They were in trouble. They needed her, and she was miles away.

But she needed to be miles away. She needed to work and to send money home. If only she dared to go back to the post office and ask them to send more from her account, but she’d already sent all that she could.

“Oh no,” she sighed. She lowered the letter, dropping her arms to her sides and glancing around at the busy Brynthwaite street, as if the answer would be hanging from the boughs of the trees in the churchyard.

“Flossie?”

Relief poured through her at Polly’s call. She turned to find her friend walking down the street toward her, dressed in black.

“Polly. What are you doing here?” She tried to smile, even though she wanted to cry.

“I could ask you the same question,” Polly said. “You look so sad.”

“I’ve just had a letter from home,” she explained. “Betsy says that the little ones are sick and father’s had his wages cut at the factory. She says they are in trouble and don’t know what to do. I need to send them more money, but I only have so much.”

Polly rushed the last of the distance to her, hugged Flossie, then hooked her arm through hers. “I’m sure there’s a solution,” she said.

She searched along the churchyard wall, then tugged Flossie with her in through the church gate and to a lonely corner of the yard. The funeral for Mrs. Pycroft was still in progress. Flossie noticed Mr. Throckmorton standing with Dr. Pycroft and their friend, Mr. Smith, as well as the mayor and Lady Elizabeth. She wasn’t able to catch Mr. Throckmorton’s attention, though, and at the moment she didn’t think she wanted to. Polly took her through the yard to a small maze of hedges with benches for people who wanted to sit and contemplate without being disturbed.

“What exactly does the letter say?” Polly asked, sitting tight beside her on the bench.

“Just that Papa’s wages were cut and the children were sick, and that things aren’t as they appeared when I was home,” Flossie explained. “How could they hide the truth from me? I need to do something for them, Polly, but what?”

“Hmm.” Polly pressed her lips together, hugging Flossie’s arm. “When you told me you wanted to get away from Crestmont Grange, you said it wasn’t because of money.”

A flush of shame spilled through Flossie. “It wasn’t,” she said slowly.

“Could you go back there?”

“No, never,” Flossie answered quickly.

Polly hummed. “Is Mr. Throckmorton paying you a good wage to work at the hotel?”

“He is,” Flossie said.

“Then you will just have to ask him to increase that wage,” Polly concluded.

Flossie sighed, her shoulders sagging. “He’s already increased it from what he had planned to pay me originally. After the tea for Lady Elizabeth, he has given me more responsibility.”

“Well! That’s something,” Polly said, perking up. “Has he made you Head Maid or some such?”

“No.” Flossie shook her head. “We’ve all got the same titles, as far as I know.”

Polly balked. “Mr. Throckmorton has heaped more responsibilities on your shoulders, but he hasn’t given you a grand title?”

Flossie laughed in spite of herself. “I don’t need a grand title. He’s increased my wages.”

“By a lot?” Polly asked.

Flossie bit her lip. “I thought so, but it doesn’t look like it will be enough now. I need to think of something more. I have to help my family.”

The two of them sat together in silence, contemplating the whole thing.

“What about sewing?” Polly said at length.

“Sewing?” Flossie tilted her head to the side to think about it. She was a fair hand with a needle.

“You could take in sewing in your free time. Or darning. Or even washing,” Polly said.

Flossie shook her head over the idea with a sigh. “I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time left to take it in. Hotel business keeps me busy from sun-up to sun-down.”

“Then you shall just have to ask Mr. Throckmorton for another raise,” Polly declared. “And if he says no, you must threaten to quit.”

“Quit?”

“Yes. If he’s grown so dependent on you as to pile on the work, then he would be threatened enough to cave into whatever demands you have.” She leaned closer and added, “I did that with Lady E. once.”

“Polly! You didn’t.”

Polly grinned. “I did. We were having a row. Nothing serious,” she rushed to clarify, “but enough that I put my foot down. And Lady E. gave in.”

“Polly Penrose, you have nerves of steel,” Flossie said. “But I wouldn’t dare try that with Mr. Throckmorton.”

She truly wouldn’t. She liked her job at the hotel far too much to put it in any kind of jeopardy. She liked the extra responsibility. It made her feel important, valued, as if she could tackle anything. In truth, working at the hotel was the most stimulating jobs she’d ever had. And if she was being honest, she liked Mr. Throckmorton too much to abandon him. He was a dragon, but one she knew she could tame. He was a riddle and a force of nature all at once, and she admired him, though nearly everyone else on his staff cowered in fear when he walked past. Even so, she wouldn’t make threats to get what she wanted from him.

“Polly?” Lady E. called from somewhere in the churchyard, outside of the hedge mazes. “What happened to that girl? Polly?”

“I’ve got to go,” Polly said, popping up from the bench and zipping to the corner. “I still think you should threaten to quit,” she said before disappearing.

Flossie shook her head and smiled over her friend. She sighed and sat back, grateful for the seclusion of the thick hedges. She missed the days of long walks and childish pranks that she and Polly had enjoyed as girls. A large part of her missed being a girl. Childhood seemed so long ago, and the world had taught her so many cruel things since.

She knit her brow and looked at Betsy’s letter without opening it. The problem was that she’d been here before. When she’d left to go to Crestmont Grange, her family had fallen into hard times. Then, like now, Betsy had sent her letters and telegrams, worrying over her fate and that of the children. Her husband, Edward, had been sick, but he’d kept on working, all to no avail. Flossie had sent everything she could to Betsy, but when Edward died, it hadn’t been enough. In a panic and at the end of her rope, she’d earned the money that Betsy needed in the only way she could, the way desperate women had for centuries. That’s when things had begun to unravel.

“But I don’t understand any of it,” a man said, drawing near.

Flossie stayed where she was, well-hidden by the thickness of the hedges. She sank against the back of the bench, figuring if she was silent, whoever it was would pass her by.

“There’s nothing to understand. It’s madness,” a second voice said.

Flossie caught her breath. Mr. Throckmorton.

“Come on, man. I’m only trying to help you, but I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” The first voice again, Mr. Smith, Mr. Throckmorton’s friend.

“I…I can’t,” Mr. Throckmorton answered.

Holding perfectly still, Flossie prayed that they would keep walking. They didn’t. She heard Mr. Throckmorton let out a long, shaking breath. He shuffled his feet, but neither man walked on from where they had stopped on the other side of the hedge, mere feet away from her.

“Jason,” Mr. Smith said. “Please. Talk to me. You can’t even stand still. Something is obviously wrong.”

“Leave me alone,” Mr. Throckmorton answered in a voice that begged for anything but to be left alone.

Flossie turned her head slowly to the side. She could see him through a small gap in the hedge, or at least part of him. He was dressed all in black with his frock coat buttoned up tight, as usual. He’d taken his hat off, and now spun it by the brim, as restless as a magpie.

“I’ve left you alone long enough,” Mr. Smith went on. “I can’t stand to see you so…agitated. You’re my friend. You’ve been my friend as far back as my first memories and before.”

Mr. Throckmorton huffed a laugh. “Marshall isn’t even this concerned about me, and he’s a doctor.”

“So it’s a medical condition?” Mr. Smith asked.

Flossie could only see part of Mr. Throckmorton’s face, but it was enough to see a deep flush paint his cheeks and neck.

“It…it does have a name, yes,” Mr. Throckmorton answered.

“So you are ill,” Mr. Smith said, full of alarm. Flossie held her breath, concern flooding her.

“I can’t talk about this anymore, Lawrence.” Mr. Throckmorton tried to step away, but Mr. Smith held him to his place.

“That’s it,” he said. “I’m tired of Marshall dismissing your illness and I’m tired of you refusing to tell me what it is. I want to help you, Jason. I can’t stand to see you in so much pain. Pain,” he repeated the word, putting emphasis on it. “You just said back there that you are in pain. You know that pain goes against everything that I believe.”

Mr. Throckmorton laughed. “Spoken like a true hedonist.”

“I’m a hedonist because that is the way that makes sense to me,” Mr. Smith went on. “Pain is my devil.”

“And pleasure is your god, I know,” Mr. Throckmorton seethed. “Well, your god is my devil.”

There was a brief pause before Mr. Smith said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

A longer pause followed. Flossie could only see part of him, but she could feel Mr. Throckmorton pulsing with tension. She could feel the torment in him as if he was a furnace radiating heat. Her throat closed up with emotion, the same as it had when she read Betsy’s letter. And just the same, she felt there had to be something she could do.

“Satyriasis,” Mr. Throckmorton said at length, frustration and defeat in his voice. “It’s called satyriasis. Are you happy now?”

Flossie heard Mr. Smith move, heard the shift of fabric as he crossed his arms.

“No,” he said. “What is that?”

“It means….” Mr. Throckmorton paused and let out a breath in total defeat. In a voice no more than a whisper, he went on to say, “I have an inability to control my sexual impulses.”

Flossie frowned, still holding her breath, confused.

“I don’t understand,” Mr. Smith said, echoing what she felt.

“I can’t control myself,” Mr. Throckmorton repeated. “Not when it comes to women.”

He stepped to the side enough for Flossie to have a clear view of Mr. Smith, who shrugged.

“You’ve always enjoyed women,” he said, looking perplexed. “So have I.”

“It’s beyond that,” Mr. Throckmorton said through clenched teeth. “It’s all I can think about. It’s like a craving that nothing will satisfy.”

“So.” Mr. Smith made a face that was half amused, half confused. “Find yourself a woman and satisfy it.”

“Did you not just hear me say that nothing will satisfy me?” Mr. Throckmorton hissed, rippling with tension once more. “Nothing!”

“All right, all right,” Mr. Smith said, raising his hands in surrender.

“I said you wouldn’t understand,” Mr. Throckmorton went on, shifting and pacing, unable to keep still. “This is why I tell no one. I’m only ever met with jeers and lewd suggestions. Even Marshall laughs at me and tells me, as my doctor, his recommended course of treatment is that I regularly visit brothels.”

“Well there aren’t any brothels in Brynthwaite,” Mr. Smith said. “I would know.”

“That’s not the point. They make it worse,” Mr. Throckmorton snapped. “And you have no idea how bad it can be.”

“Then tell me,” Mr. Smith appealed to him.

Mr. Throckmorton swayed in front of the gap once more, and all Flossie could see was his coat and the bottom of his chin through the hedge.

“Constant distraction,” he said, jaw tight. “Constant arousal. From the moment I get up in the morning until the moment I go to bed. Do you have any idea how painful that is?”

“I’m beginning to see, yes,” Mr. Smith answered slowly. “And there’s nothing you can do to…to take care of that yourself?”

“Temporary solution,” Mr. Throckmorton answered. “And I can’t very well absent myself from business and company every hour or two only to return, red-faced and sweating, without explanation.”

“And is this a continuous state?” Mr. Smith asked.

Mr. Throckmorton raised his free hand, presumably to rake through his hair, clenching his hat in the other. “Not continuous, no,” he admitted at last. “But frequent enough that even the threat, the very thought that at any moment my body could and will betray me, makes every moment a study in dread.”

“Your coat,” Mr. Smith said, letting out a breath as though something made sense.

“It is my armor and my shield,” Mr. Throckmorton answered.

A second behind, Flossie understood as well. Mr. Throckmorton’s coat was always buttoned up, always on, even in the hottest of weather, covering him from his neck to his knees. No one could see his body and its reactions behind that coat. She thought back to the hundred times in the last week that she had found herself working in close quarters with him, asking him questions or receiving directions. Any one of those times he could have been standing in front of her with the evidence of his troubles plain for all the world to see, but for the protection of a layer of fabric.

“You know,” Mr. Smith began again, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m quite certain there are men out there who wouldn’t see this as a problem at all. In fact, they’d be chuffed by it.”

“But I am not,” Mr. Throckmorton barked. “I am not. I have no wish to be a…a man who cannot control his own body…a smug Lothario…a monster.” He bit out the last word with so much fervor that Flossie had to swallow to keep herself from weeping for him.

“Oh, Jason,” Mr. Smith said with a sigh that said he understood at last. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were in this kind of torment.”

“No one does.”

“You’ve consulted with doctors?”

“In London,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “Several. They’re the ones who told me what it was.”

“Sata—”

“Satyriasis.”

“And what did they tell you to do about it?”

“To enjoy myself,” Mr. Throckmorton answered bitterly, through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, friend.” Mr. Smith stepped forward and clapped his friend’s arm.

“I have done my best to develop the willpower I need to battle this,” Mr. Throckmorton went on. “In London, for a time, things became so bad that—” He stopped and shook his head, raising a hand as if he was beating off memories. “I have forced myself to keep no female company outside of an appropriate setting. I have reminded myself that my heart belongs to Lady Elizabeth. She is the focus of all of my efforts. For her, I will master this. For her, I will not be a monster.”

“Jason, you’re not a monster,” Mr. Smith said. “But Lady Elizabeth is not worth—”

“Don’t say it,” Mr. Throckmorton hissed. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“All right.” Mr. Smith held up his hands again.

Mr. Throckmorton took a deep breath and went on. “I have managed to stay celibate for two months now.”

“That’s…good?”

“It is the longest I have gone without sex since the two of us paid Annie Bolton to take us up to the hayloft.”

Mr. Smith let out a laugh. “That was quite a day.”

Mr. Throckmorton found nothing funny in it. “It is driving me mad.” His voice cracked with the intensity of his emotion. “I cannot think, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. I close my eyes and the images I see torment me beyond bearing.”

Flossie clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from sighing for him, tears stinging at the back of her eyes. She knew he was not exaggerating, not being dramatic to make a point. She had seen it in him. That fierceness, that razor’s edge of control that he clung to so desperately as they went about their business in the hotel. He snapped and thrashed and terrified his staff, but really and truly, he was on the edge of madness most days, and for the most heartbreaking of reasons. He was right. No one would understand.

“Do you feel as though you are a danger to yourself or others?” Mr. Smith asked quietly. “Do…do the women in your employ have need to fear for their safety?”

“I…I don’t know,” Mr. Throckmorton answered. “I believe I am more of a danger to myself. I came back to Brynthwaite, decided to build a hotel here, so that I could protect myself from the temptations of larger towns,” he said, “but I will have to go back there on business at some point. I will have to face the temptations.” He paused, a sad, frustrated sound catching in this throat. “But in spite of all that, temptation has followed me here.”

“And you’ve been having Marshall order medicines for you,” Mr. Smith connected another piece of the puzzle. “Do they work?”

“No. Nothing works,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “I’ve considered taking opium to dull my senses completely, but any of the narcotics I’ve tried have rendered me unable to conduct my business affairs. Without my hotels, I am nothing.”

“I see.” Mr. Throckmorton had moved enough that Flossie was able to see Mr. Smith cross his arms and rub his chin as he mulled over the problem. “What about taking a mistress?”

“What woman in her right mind would want to be my mistress?” Mr. Throckmorton snapped back, throwing his arms out. “What woman would lower herself to be at my beck and call to satisfy my lust whenever it arises, knowing how often that would be?”

An odd prickling broke out on Flossie’s skin. It raced down her back and through her blood, making her feel sick and giddy at the same time. She tightened her hands around Betsy’s letter, begging for help, staring at it through the eyes of her memories and the knowledge of what she had proved herself capable of doing for money.

“Besides, how would I ever pull off keeping a mistress?” Mr. Throckmorton went on. “They’re difficult to conceal, you know, particularly in a town as small as Brynthwaite. If it became public knowledge? If Lady Elizabeth found out that I kept a bit on the side? She would never look at me again. My heart would be ruined.”

“Jason, you know what I think about your obsession with Lady Elizabeth,” Mr. Smith said.

“That I’m a fool, that she has no need to marry, and if she did, it wouldn’t be me. Yes, I know, but I have to prove you wrong. I have to.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about that now,” Mr. Smith said. “Right now, my only concern is for your health. Marshall be damned, you are ill. You do need a remedy.”

“Thank you for saying so,” Mr. Throckmorton said, letting out a breath. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear somebody say that.”

“I’m glad.” Mr. Smith nodded without smiling. “I’ll talk to Mother Grace, see if she has any suggestions.”

Mr. Throckmorton snorted. “And now I’m resorting to ancient magic and folk ways.”

“If she can help, does it matter?”

“No,” Mr. Throckmorton admitted with a sigh. “But I’m not sure that anything can help. All I want right now is to get this damned hotel open without losing my mind or having a spontaneous orgasm in public.”

Mr. Smith’s mouth twitched in a grin. “Has that actually happened before?”

“Yes,” Mr. Throckmorton answered so deadpan that Flossie blushed for him.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Smith squeezed his arm. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“If you ever feel like you’re in imminent danger of harming yourself or a woman, you will come straight to the forge before you do anything.”

There was a pause, then Mr. Throckmorton said, “I will.”

“Good.” Mr. Smith let go of his arm and patted Mr. Throckmorton on the back. The two of them turned to go. “At the very least, we can distract you with other things. You’ve got your hotel opening next week and….” His voice faded as they returned to the funeral gathering.

Flossie let out the breath she felt as though she had been holding through the entire conversation. Her body buzzed with awkwardness and her throat was tight with emotion. She’d never heard of such a strange or tragic affliction in her life. It had never occurred to her that such things could exist. All of the men she had known, the men at Crestmont Grange, had been in full control of their faculties and most certainly knew exactly what they were doing when it came to sexual impulses. She knew that better than anyone else.

She stared at the letter in her hands. She knew. She knew what it was to be that desperate. She was right back there again, faced with exactly the thing she had fled the Grange for in the first place. Only this time, her family’s misfortune and her own desperation might just be able to save someone else from a fate worse than her own.

Alexandra

“Dr. Dyson! Dr. Dyson!” Simon’s off-pitch shout echoed through the halls of Brynthwaite Hospital. “Oh, Dr. Dyson!”

Alex sighed and withdrew the thermometer from her patient’s mouth. The old man gave her a wary look as she read it and sighed. “What is wrong with that boy?” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Leave off, he’s just doing his job,” the patient in the next bed, a surly farmer named Jones who was there for a case of gout that wasn’t all that different from her Uncle David’s, said.

“Dr. Dyson!” Simon swung into the men’s ward, catching his breath.

“What is it, Simon?” She handed the thermometer off to Nurse Callow and said, “one hundred point three. We’ll need to keep you in just a little longer, Mr. Harmon, but as long as you drink the broth Nurse Callow brings you, you should be right as rain in no time.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” the old man heaved a weary sigh.

Alex smiled, then wiped her hands on her apron and marched to face the problem of Simon. “What is it?” she repeated.

“It’s a delivery, ma’am—I mean, doctor,” he said as though the concept were a foreign one.

“A delivery?” Alex’s lips twitched and she moved past him, heading toward the door. “And is this a surprise?”

“Well, it is, doctor,” Simon said, following her. “I didn’t think we had the money for it. Hope it’s not some mistake. Dr. Pycroft would be terrible upset if it is, God help him.”

“Dr. Pycroft does not need to know any more about the delivery than that it arrived and everything is in order,” Alex said, crossing the hall to stick her head into the women’s and children’s ward. “Nurse Stephens, would you be willing to come downstairs to put away an order of medical supplies that has just come in?”

“Yes, doctor,” Nurse Stephens said, rising from the bedside of the woman she’d been talking to.

Alex nodded, then marched along the hall and down the stairs with Simon in tow.

“It’s just that we don’t usually get orders on Thursdays, Dr. Dyson,” he went on, more upset over her ease with the situation as they reached the downstairs hall. “Something must be amiss.”

“Nothing is amiss, Simon. It’s just an order of medical supplies. Badly needed medical supplies.”

“But—”

“Would you rather we go on as we are, scrambling for everything?” she stopped his protest.

“No. I ’spose not.”

Alex nodded, then continued on to the waiting room. There were only a few patients, and none of them looked to be in dire need. The most noteworthy thing in the room was the large pile of crates and parcels waiting on a dolly. A bored-looking tradesman stood beside them. He frowned at Simon.

“Where’s the doctor to sign for this?” the tradesman grumbled.

“I’m Dr. Dyson.” Alex strode to meet him, holding out her hand for the bill of lading.

The tradesman looked her up and down, turning up his nose. “You’re the doctor?”

“I am.”

“She is,” Simon seconded her.

“Oh, she is,” Mrs. Garforth backed both of them up, though she seemed to share the ill opinion of the tradesman.

“Fine,” the tradesman sighed, “Sign right here. But if this is all some sort of joke and Dr. Pycroft ends up complaining about the bill, tell him not to come crying to me.”

“I can assure you, sir,” Alex met him fierce frown for fierce frown, “this order is my responsibility.”

It was. In more ways than one. She would probably hear about it once Marshall found out—if Marshall found out—but the entirety of the order had been paid for not out of hospital funds, but out of her own personal allowance. Come to think of it, if her mother found out there would be hell to pay too. The solution was to keep the whole thing an absolute secret.

“Just one moment.” Alex stopped the tradesman as he turned to go.

She scanned through the list in her hand, checking it against the boxes that the tradesman had unloaded from the dolly. It would take longer to open each one to be sure they contained everything they should, but at least there were the correct number of boxes, and the tradesman would get the message that she was not to be trifled with.

“Everything looks in order,” she told him, nodding. “And payment has already been received, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the tradesman said. “Good day, ma’am.” He nodded, then turned and stomped out.

“Already paid for?” Mrs. Garforth balked. “Supplies for the hospital?”

Alex avoided looking at her. She may have miscalculated whether she could get away with purchasing supplies on her own. She hadn’t realized receiving an order was such a noteworthy event.

“I suppose there were donations shortly after Mrs. Pycroft died.” Alex gave the excuse, then instantly felt bad doing so. It was wrong to use that poor woman’s memory to hide her own actions, especially when it was her own actions that had caused her death in the first place.

Because Alex was certain. Clara Pycroft had died because of one fateful action on her part. How could she have known? She had been standing there, talking to Marshall about the hospital’s problems, problems she had caused by hiding her employment from her mother. Clara had come along to stir up her own domestic pot. Alex hadn’t thought anything of it except to be embarrassed for Marshall’s sake. She had done the only thing she could think of under the circumstances. She had waved to little Martha.

That was what had started it. If she hadn’t raised her hand and smiled, if she hadn’t been kind and friendly to Martha Pycroft, the girl would not have broken away from her mother. She would not have run into the street, Clara would not have run after her, and the carriage-and-four would have charged on without so much as a blink. Clara would still be alive, Marshall would not be a widower, and his girls would not be motherless. It was all her fault.

“Dr. Dyson, are you feeling well?” Nurse Stephens asked her.

“Perfectly well.” Alex sucked in a breath and blinked rapidly. “Never better. We’ve work to do. Take these parcels into the dispensary and put them away.”

“Yes, doctor,” Nurse Stephens and Simon said.

Alex searched the room for something else to do, something to take her away from the press of guilt that threatened to choke the air from her lungs.

“Ah, Mr. Fletcher.” She strode across the waiting room to an aging man who sat hunched over, a grimace on his face. “You still seem to be in distress. Are you certain you won’t let me examine you?”

“No,” the man squeezed out the one word.

“You’re clearly in pain, sir,” she pushed, working to sound as approachable as possible.

“I’ll wait for Dr. Pycroft, if you please,” he croaked.

“Dr. Pycroft has just attended his wife’s funeral,” Mrs. Garforth scolded the man from halfway across the room. “He’s not like to be here any time soon. So unless you plan to expire on the floor, you’d best let Dr. Dyson see you.”

Alex raised her eyebrows at the unexpected endorsement of her skills—or at least the acknowledgement that she was, in fact, a real doctor—but Mr. Fletcher wasn’t moved.

“I’ll wait,” he said, hunkering down.

Alex let out a breath and turned to a middle-aged mother and her son. The boy looked to be about ten and a pale shade of green. “What can I do for you today, ma’am?” she asked.

“It’s Arthur,” the woman said, gesturing to her listless son. “He’s been sick all night.”

Finally. Something to focus on.

“Bring him back to the examination room and we’ll take a look.”

It was a relief to have something to focus on, even if young Arthur was sick all over the floor. At least she could pour her energies into something tangible. It was only a mild case of gastroenteritis, not something she could stitch up or operate on, but knowing that she was doing something, that in some small way she was making up for the death she had caused, eased her troubled conscience.

“I think you’ll pull through, Arthur,” she told the boy as she walked him and his mother back to the waiting room. “And don’t you mind at all about the examination room floor. We’ll clean up.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Arthur’s mother said, near weeping with embarrassment.

Alex supposed it would be mean at that point to remind the woman that she should be addressed as ‘doctor.’

That thought was pushed straight from her mind at the sight of her mother standing tall and regal in the waiting room. Dressed in dark purple for the funeral, she looked more like a wicked queen than a mother, just like Arthur’s.

“Mother,” Alex greeted her, suspicion keeping her from smiling.

“Ugh, what is that vile smell?”

Yes, her mother truly did know how to make the weak and ailing feel even worse. Arthur’s mother ushered him out of the hospital, looking as though it wasn’t right for them to be in the same room as Lady Charlotte.

“Mother, unless you’re ill or injured, I don’t have time to speak to you,” Alex said, but she knew she couldn’t get out of speaking to her. Slight though she was, her mother was a wall.

“I’ve come to make sure that you aren’t over-exerting yourself, my dear,” her mother said.

Alex blinked at her. “Over-exerting myself? Mother, I’m a doctor. That is what we are conditioned to do. Now if you will excuse me.”

She attempted to step around her mother, but with all of the grace of a spider, her mother blocked her path. “I’ve had the most jolly idea, my dear,” she said.

Alex pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “Have you?”

“Yes. Cumbria is so dull, of course,” her mother said with a long-suffering sigh, “But I have had just the idea to liven it up a little.”

Enough of the Cumbrian residents waiting to see a doctor gave Lady Charlotte indignant looks that Alex decided to take things into her own hands. “Tell me about it in the office,” she said.

“Yes, I think that would be best,” her mother replied.

Alex turned and headed down the hall, trusting that her mother would follow.

“Simon,” she called into the dispensary as they passed. “A patient has been sick in examination room one. Could you clean it up?”

“Yes, doctor,” Simon answered, looking sick himself.

Alex continued on, turning at the door to Marshall’s office and gesturing for her mother to go in.

“Oh,” her mother said once they were inside and the door was closed. “It’s much larger and cleaner than I expected.”

“That’s because it’s an office, not a ward or a surgery or an examination room,” Alex said, then went straight to, “What do you want?”

“I’m going to host a house-party,” Lady Charlotte said, her smile suddenly bright.

Alex crossed her arms and leaned her backside against Marshall’s desk. “A house party.”

“Yes. And I’ll invite some of the noblest names along with a few of our old friends. It will be a jolly time.”

“Mother, you don’t have a house,” Alex reminded her.

“Of course I do, dear. Huntington Hall.”

“Which is Elizabeth and Uncle David’s house, not yours. Or have you forgotten?”

Her mother laughed. “I haven’t forgotten, but I’m certain Elizabeth will fully support my idea. She’s young and vibrant and carefree, so of course she would welcome such a stirring social event.”

Alex frowned. “Mother, Elizabeth may be young, and, I’ll grant you, she’s vibrant. But ‘carefree’ is not an adjective I would attach to her. She serves as squire for this whole area in her father’s place. She has enough on her plate without entertaining some grand cadre of strangers in her house.”

“You are determined to vex me at every turn, aren’t you?” Her mother’s temper turned in a flash.

Alex was in no mood for this fight. She shook her head and pushed away from the desk, letting her arms drop.

“Fine. I will not vex you. I will, however, insist that you tell your idea to Elizabeth, not to me, and that if you truly wish to go through with this, you will ask her permission instead of elbowing in.”

Her mother flushed deep red. “I have never had to ask the permission of a woman who is barely more than a girl to do anything.”

“Mother, Elizabeth is thirty, and she is an heiress.”

Lady Charlotte drew in a long breath, fixing her posture and tilting up her chin. “She may be, but I am her aunt. She will do as I say.”

That was far from a given but Alex had lost her patience for the discussion. “Why are you here telling me this anyhow? What have I to do with your party plans?”

Her mother smiled and turned a look on her that was so sly, nothing she could say next would be good.

“I was thinking that I would invite Anthony Fretwell,” she said. Alex caught her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And his son, George Fretwell.”

It was like a blow to her stomach that knocked all the air from her. She felt her cheeks go red and her pulse soar. Her mother couldn’t possibly know about her and George. She couldn’t possibly know about the disaster she’d made of things and the utter fool she’d made of herself last year.

“Oh?” she said, feigning indifference. “It will be nice to see them again. You and the late Mrs. Fretwell were good friends, weren’t you?”

“We were,” her mother crowed. “It will be a treat to see her husband and son again.”

As large as the office was, it suddenly felt too small. Alex had to get back to work. She had to get away from her mother.

“Talk to Elizabeth then,” she said, then cleared her throat to bring her voice back down to its usual timbre. “If she’s as enthusiastic as you think she’ll be, she will welcome the idea. Now if you will excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

She crossed into the hall, and her mother followed her. Lady Charlotte started down the hallway to the waiting room, but paused halfway, turning back as smoothly as an actress.

“Of course, if Elizabeth does agree to this idea, it will mean you will be needed at the house more than you will be needed here.”

Alex felt the strength of the blow for what it was. “Why don’t you discuss it with Elizabeth first?”

“Oh, I will,” Lady Charlotte said, then turned and continued down the hall and out to the waiting room.

Alex stepped to lean against the wall, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. As if having George back in her life, if only for a flash, wasn’t bad enough, her mother was once again bribing her to stay away from the hospital. And if George did come, forbidding her to work would cut off her only route of escape. Well, she had to hand it to her mother, she was brilliant at setting traps.

“What’s that look for?”

Alex opened her eyes with a start to find Marshall walking up the hall toward her.

“Dr. Pycroft. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“It’s my hospital,” he said. “Can’t I come to work when I choose to?”

He was still dressed in formal black, his bowler hat in hand, his face pale and drawn. Alex understood the need to work when suffering from a restless mind, but Marshall didn’t look good at all.

“And the girls?” Alex asked, hesitant.

“Their Aunt Eileen is caring for them,” he said, too much of an edge to his voice. “I’m sure they’re just delighted with that. They’ll be so pleased that their papa left them with that woman.”

Warning bells sounded in Alex’s mind at the thick sarcasm. She followed Marshall down the hall to his office. He stopped at the door to examination room one.

“What happened in here?” he demanded.

“Boy, ten years old, gastroenteritis,” Alex told him.

“What was your recommended course of treatment?”

Alex shrugged. “There’s not much you can do with an upset stomach. I told his mother rest and fluids, and to come back if it gets worse, but I’m certain it won’t.”

Marshall nodded and strode on. “What else do we have?” he said, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it on the rack beside the door. He plunked his bowler on top, then loosened the buttons of his sleeves and began to roll them up.

“All’s well on the wards,” she said, following him back into the hall and down to the dispensary. “Mr. Jones was being salty earlier, but I’m not surprised. Oh, there’s a man in the waiting room, a Mr. Fletcher, that refuses to see me.”

Of all things, Marshall’s face filled with fury. “We can’t go having any patient that chooses spurn a perfectly good doctor when they’re available.”

“He seems to be in distress, but I keep checking on him to see if he changes mind.”

“Stupid bloody fool,” Marshall muttered.

They turned into the dispensary, but as he reached for an apron, he stopped. His eyes went wide at the sight of Nurse Stephens putting away the newly delivered supplies.

“What’s all this?” his voice rose in volume and tone.

“I-it’s an order, doctor,” Nurse Stephens answered, turning her wide eyes to Alex.

Alex held her breath.

“I didn’t order anything.” Marshall marched into the room and took the bill of lading from the top of the counter where it rested. “I didn’t order any of this.”

“I did,” Alex came clean. It was better to confess now, since she wasn’t going to be able to get away with secrecy, than to let it go on. “I placed the order.”

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, far more anger than her gesture of charity warranted.

“I did not authorize for you to place any order, Dr. Dyson,” he snapped. “The hospital cannot afford these supplies.” He scanned the list, brow flying up. “Fifteen bottles of carbolic acid? That costs a small fortune. You’ve overstepped yourself.” He slapped the bill back on the counter.

“The hospital needn’t worry about the expense,” she assured him. “I…I paid for these supplies.”

“You?” Marshall’s face and neck turned red. He slipped the apron on over his head, and his hands shook as he tied it in back. “You, Dr. Dyson?”

“Yes,” she answered, as plain as she could be. “I used my own funds. I couldn’t bear to think of the hospital as being so undersupplied. Consider it my personal donation.”

“And do you intend to shell out your own money every time we need carbolic acid and….” He glanced around at the half-unpacked order, “and thermometers?”

“No.” Alex held her head high. “But I can afford it this time, so I took the initiative. Under the circumstances, I thought that it would be appropriate?”

“Appropriate?” Marshall thundered. “What circumstances?”

He shouted so loud that Alex caught Nurse Stephens’s eye and nodded for her to flee while she could. Nurse Stephens didn’t need to be told twice. She put down the bottles she was storing and fled as though Lucifer himself were pursuing her.

“Dr. Pycroft,” Alex began, lowering her voice and taking a daring step closer to Marshall. “You are under duress. Your wife has just died. You can’t be expected to tend to the needs of the hospital when—”

“It’s my bloody hospital,” he shouted.

Alex flinched. “Yes, I know.” She spoke even more gently. “But it is also perfectly understandable if you feel you are not up to the stress of—”

“What is wrong with you people?” Marshall blasted, eyes bright with fury and something much sharper. “Why won’t you just let me work?”

“Of course, if that is what you wish to do.”

“Of course it’s what I wish to do,” he shouted. “It’s all I want to do. I don’t want to loiter around a home that is silent but still heavy with the ghost of her. I don’t want to sit and accept pity from people who barely knew Clara and who know me even less. I can’t stand the sight of her sister, putting on the same airs that Clara wore like a mantle of martyrdom. I want to work.”

“I understand,” Alex said, barely above a whisper, desperate for some way to calm the fury that she seemed to have unleashed.

“Like hell you understand! Don’t you people see that I can’t stand to sit idle, to do nothing but think?” he went on. “Can’t you see that it is killing me to listen to the silence where her complaints and her nagging and her scolding once where?”

“I’m sure that—”

“Can you imagine how deep that silence is? How pervasive it has become?” He cut off her attempt at sympathy as he had cut off her attempt to question. He raised his hands to run through his hair and to scrub his face, pacing suddenly where he had been still before. “Mary has taken over cooking, as she’s always wanted to, and now my meals are palatable. I’ve slept better these last six nights than I’ve slept in the last six years. The weight that has pressed down on my shoulders for more than a decade is gone, obliterated.”

“That’s….” Alex didn’t know what it was.

Marshall took a step toward her. “I have caught myself lifting my face to the sunlight and breathing a sigh of relief, like a man released from prison, Dr. Dyson, and all because my wife is dead.”

He paused, the agony of his emotions etched in every line and hollow of his face. Alex’s chest squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe.

“What kind of a man does that make me?” he breathed out in desperation. His face crumpled, his eyes red, as though another harsher wave of emotion was about to crash on him and bring him to tears.

The silence between them crackled. There was nothing Alex could say, nothing that had prepared her for the strength of the revelation in front of her. She could only imagine the torment lying in wait behind that simple question.

“When a cancer is cut out of a body,” she whispered, “it can feel as though a part of the patient has been lost with the tumor. But time heals those wounds, and if the cancer was caught before it had time to spread, even the loss of a limb can be accorded a good thing.”

Another intense silence electrified the air between them as Marshall stared at her. And stared.

He blinked and drew in a sharp breath. His chest rose and fell as he recovered himself. He combed his fingers through his hair and straightened his apron, then scrubbed his face. His hands rested for a long time over his eyes, and Alex was sure she saw the fleeting pinch of a man about to weep.

A moment later, it was gone. Marshall took in another breath, lowered his hands, and met her eyes.

“Thank you, Dr. Dyson,” he said, calmer by far. “Now please let me work.”

Alex nodded. “Mr. Fletcher is in the waiting room, eager to see you.”

He nodded in return. For another long moment they stared at each other. As sharp and as foreign as his pain was, she felt as though she recognized it on some level. And as hard to hear as his confessions had been, she knew that Marshall was a good man. A conflicted one, but good.

At last, he broke eye contact with her and marched on, out the dispensary door and around the corner to the waiting room. Alex put a hand over her stomach and leaned against the nearest counter. Her mother could threaten and cajole her all she wanted, but Alex knew this was where she belonged.

Lawrence

It was a comfort to be home, the forge hot in front of him, his work in his hands, sending the familiar thrill of accomplishment coursing through his blood. Some men defined pleasure only in terms of the enjoyment of wine, women, and song, but for Lawrence, his own hedonistic code included the pleasure of work he was suited for and the creation of things of beauty from base elements. He loved every part of his toil at the forge, from the heat to the sweat to the satisfied ache of his muscles at the end of the day.

If only things could have been so simple for Jason.

It was inconceivable to Lawrence that a man’s body could work against him. He had become good friends with his own body when he was still a boy, testing it by running, climbing, and riding, enjoying good food, sunshine, nature, and yes, women. It had never dawned on him that a man could live in anything but perfect accord with his desires and capabilities. What sort of hell must Jason live through on a daily basis?

“Are you concerned about your friend?” Matty asked.

Lawrence blinked and looked up from his work. He was so used to being alone with his own thoughts while his only company, Oliver, stayed trapped in a world of his own that it was like a splash of cold water to realize someone was beside him, watching him, seeing him.

“I am,” he confessed. “I can’t imagine what he’s going through.”

“Yes, it must be difficult to lose your wife.”

He was halfway through opening his mouth to correct her when it struck him that he should be feeling equally as sorry for Marshall as he was for Jason. When had it happened that all of his friends were in dire straits but him? He would thank his lucky stars, if he didn’t think it would put him in danger of courting his own bad luck.

“I’m sure it is,” he replied with a smile for Matty. “Although to be honest, it wasn’t the happiest of marriages.”

Matty frowned. She wandered toward the forge from where she had been sitting on the stairs leading to his room, sewing a new dress for herself from the fabric he’d purchased for her. “His daughters seem older than their years,” she said.

“They are,” he admitted with a sigh for them. “Mary, the eldest, especially. She’s been Marshall’s rock for these many years.”

“She confided in me that she doesn’t trust their aunt,” Matty went on. She wandered so close to the forge that it seemed to Lawrence as if she was impervious to the heat, and if she might lean against it like one might lean against a table.

Her words sank in, and his brow rose. “You spoke to Mary?”

“Yes,” she said. “I went off to help them with the refreshments. You were talking to your friend, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Is that where you were?” he asked. It pleased him somehow that she’d taken the initiative to help someone, that she’d acted independently of him. For all of the past week she’d kept so close. Not that he minded.

“I helped Mary to clean up the cake, then we sat in the shade of a yew tree and talked about her mother,” she went on. “Mary loved her mother, and she tells me she will miss her sorely, but she is worried that her aunt will try to take them all back to London.”

A flash of anger hit Lawrence’s chest. How dare the woman even think to take children away from their grieving father?

“Did she say anything else about it? Has Eileen made any sort of firm plans?” he asked.

Matty shook her head. “Not that Mary knows, but the worry is there. She thinks that her aunt will argue that Dr. Pycroft can’t care for his children if he is working at the hospital, but Mary insists that she can take care of her sisters.”

Lawrence set his work aside and removed his thick work gloves. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and stepped away from the forge.

“Mary is certainly capable, but she’s just a girl,” he said. “I’m loathe to admit it, but Eileen might have something of a point, especially if Marshall insists on working just as long and hard as before. He has Alexandra Dyson there with him now, but that still might not be enough.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Matty’s eyes lit up. Possibly more than he’d ever seen. Something about her had come alive, something pretty and fresh. “I was thinking that, if you’ll allow me, I might offer to help them somehow.”

“Of course I would allow it,” Lawrence laughed. “I don’t own you. You belong to no one but yourself.”

She tilted her head to the side, her face pinched, as though his words had sparked something in her.

“Are you remembering something?” he asked.

At first, she didn’t answer. “No,” she said. “It’s more of a feeling. Something about those words itches.”

“Itches.” He arched an eyebrow, moving to stand closer to you. “Let me know if I can scratch.”

She grinned at his joke, looking into his eyes as though she could see something there that made everything else come together. It was only a fleeting feeling, though. A moment later and she shook her head, crossing her arms.

“I thought maybe I could offer to spend afternoons, or mornings if it’s more convenient, at the Pycroft house. I could help Mary with the washing and cleaning, and even with the cooking and mending. Or just minding the younger girls.”

“I think Marshall would be incredibly grateful,” Lawrence agreed. He shifted and studied her more fully. “Do you think you have experience with children…before?”

She frowned as of trying her best to stare through the wall that blocked her. “I’m not sure. I only have a feeling that I will be able to do this.”

“Then by all means, do it,” he said.

“Smith!”

Lawrence turned, annoyed at having such a meaningful conversation with Matty interrupted, to find Mayor Crimpley marching toward the forge from the town road. “What does he want?” he muttered.

“Smith!” Mayor Crimpley called again.

Matty retreated back to the stairs and picked up her sewing. Her whole countenance had changed from easy and relaxed to as tense as a rabbit.

“I told you I would discuss the matter with you later, and I meant it,” Crimpley continued to talk far louder than he needed to.

Lawrence strode to the front of the roof that hung over the open area of his forge. Oliver—who had been hard at work melting the charge for the next of the hotel’s grates—stepped back as though he too was threatened. Crimpley ignored him, attempting to march right into the forge, eyes set on Matty. Lawrence stepped to the side to block him, keeping him outside of the roof.

“What can I do for you, Mayor Crimpley?” he asked, crossing his arms and pulling himself to his full height. He didn’t need words to tell Crimpley he wouldn’t get anywhere near Matty.

“It’s this business of the missing person’s reports you were after.” Crimpley attempted to step to the side, but when Lawrence moved to block him, he gave up and stood his ground. “I want to know what you’re looking for,” he finished with a glare meant to challenge.

“I’m attempting to find out if any young women matching Matty’s description have been reported missing,” he said. It was an up-front answer, but it was also as much detail as he was willing to give.

“What mischief are you up to, Smith?” Crimpley demanded. “What sordid secret are you hiding?”

“None,” Lawrence replied.

Crimpley leaned forward, as if expecting him to say more. When Lawrence kept as silent as a stone, Crimpley went on.

“Word has gotten around to me that this young woman arrived here most mysteriously,” he said. “One rumor even claims that she has no memory.”

“What an interesting rumor that is,” Lawrence said.

Crimpley bristled, his moustache twitching. “I demand an answer, Smith.”

“To which question?” Lawrence played coy.

“To the question of this girl, you filthy gypsy.”

Lawrence smiled. It was bound to come around to this eventually. Most every conversation he had had with Crimpley since they were schoolboys had come around to this.

“Do you suppose I stole her away in the middle of the night, as we gypsy-folk do?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Crimpley sneered. “Who is she? Where did you snatch her from?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” Lawrence said.

“It most certainly does concern me. I am the mayor of this town.”

“An accomplishment that I did not contribute to, I must confess,” Lawrence smiled. “But it has nothing to do with a private citizen choosing to spend their time at a place of business.”

“You will not talk circles around me, you pagan rascal.” Crimpley quivered with rage.

The more he quivered, the more Lawrence enjoyed himself. He let his weight rest on one leg and planted his hands on his hips. “What do you really want?”

Crimpley surprised him by coming out and saying, “The girl.”

The joke was over. Matty scurried up the steps and into his room, out of sight.

“Well, you’re not getting her,” Lawrence said in no uncertain terms.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crimpley scoffed. “She has no memory. I know that. You can’t hide it. She might be a missing person, otherwise you wouldn’t be checking. And rumor has it that she arrived here in deplorable condition. She should be housed at the hospital under Dr. Pycroft’s care.”

“That option was discussed and discarded,” Lawrence said. “As will be any other option you suggest.”

Crimpley ignored him. “Then she should be housed with a good, Christian family until such a time as her memory can be restored and she can be returned to her people, not with a heathen like you.”

“It just so happens that Matty would prefer to stay with a heathen like me for the moment,” he said. “She feels safe here, and who am I to deny anyone their sense of safety?”

“But it is not done,” Crimpley railed. “It is simply not done. A single, young woman under the roof of a disreputable man? The scandal will be—”

“Don’t you think there’s enough scandal surrounding me that a bit more wouldn’t make a lick of difference?” Lawrence laughed. As long as Matty chose to remain with him, and as long as Crimpley didn’t show up at his doorstep with the constable, it was all a joke.

“Why…you….” Crimpley puffed and blustered, but he couldn’t come up with a single argument that would change anything. Finally, he sucked in a breath and drew himself up to his full height. “So you refuse to comply?”

“Comply with what?” Lawrence scoffed. “I have a guest under my roof. She’s a woman who has lost her memory. What do you have to do with any of that?”

Crimpley turned red, then growled in disgust. “You will pay for this, Smith,” he said, turning to go. “Mark my words, you will pay for this.”

“Pay for what?” Lawrence walked after him, throwing his arms wide. “Pay for having a guest? Enjoying the company of a woman?”

Crimpley whipped to face him, aghast. “So you are enjoying her, then? This girl without a memory who showed up in distress on your doorstep? That is how you are treating her?”

“No,” Lawrence laughed. “But I can assure you, if I was, she would enjoy herself a lot more than if you and Mrs. Crimpley were to invite her to tea.”

“Insufferable!” Crimpley snapped. “You and your pagan ways will suffer, Smith. I am quite certain that you will burn in hell.”

Lawrence shrugged. “I’m a blacksmith. I’d likely make something useful out of the fires of hell.”

With one final huff of indignation, Crimpley pivoted and marched off. And good riddance to him. Lawrence shook his head and returned to the forge.

“It’s all right,” he called out for Matty, and for Oliver as well, who had retreated around the side of the building and stood rocking from foot to foot, just out of sight. “He’s gone, and I doubt he’ll be coming back anytime soon.”

He picked up his gloves from the bench where he’d left them and slid them on, mentally retracing his steps to figure out where to begin again. When he caught sight of a pale and timid Matty inching down the steps, he changed his mind.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said, taking his gloves off and walking to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. “Crimpley is full of fuss and nonsense, and not much else.”

“You won’t let him take me away from here, will you?” Matty asked, looking as young as Mary Pycroft.

“Of course not,” he promised in as tender a voice as he could manage. “If you want to stay here, then you shall stay here.”

She still looked terrified, so he did the simplest thing he could think of to cheer her. He stepped close and pulled her into an embrace, closing his arms around her and holding her. She may have looked like a frightened child, but she had the body of a woman, and she felt good in his embrace. Well, if the mayor wanted to be scandalized, then he’d give him something to be scandalized about. If Matty was willing, he would have no problem having her stay under his roof as his lover. It wasn’t something he would push or press, but he wasn’t beyond bringing it up when the time arose.

Jason

The garden was still only half finished. The new curtains had yet to arrive, and the tablecloths that had been hung as dummies would forever bear the marks. Some of the staff were complaining about their rooms having electricity instead of the gaslight they were used to, damn them. And he had yet to find a qualified cook who was up to the task of replacing the one who had run off to be married.

Jason slouched through the lobby of his hotel, glad to be there, regardless of its troubles. He was also glad that every member of his staff was off doing something else. Even pointy-nose Samuel, the man who had sworn to him that his years as first footman at some town house in Liverpool had qualified him to be the concierge, was elsewhere. It was a relief. Jason hadn’t been forced to drag himself through such a miserable day since moving back to Brynthwaite.

For a moment, he stood in his lobby, turning to survey everything he’d built. The Dragon’s Head was a beautiful building, if he did say so himself. He loved architecture, loved designing. Even more than building or maintaining his hotel empire. The lobby’s high ceiling and electric chandeliers loaned an air of refinement that Brynthwaite didn’t often see. The richly-colored carpet leading up the grand staircase to the guest rooms was sumptuous by any definition. The wood paneling and the white marble floor were subtle in their richness. He had sunk more money into this hotel than any of his others, even though it was a fraction of the size. Whether it was a success or not, he had built this oasis in the wilderness as more than an investment—he had built it as a home.

Already, that home was threatened by grief and darkness. With a heavy sigh, he continued on to the far side of the room and around the front desk to his office. The funeral had been a sorry state of affairs on every level. The only reason Clara Pycroft deserved to rest in peace was because she was human. In every other way, Jason hoped that she was as aggravated in death as she had made Marshall in life. Marshall was a good man, the best of their lot. He deserved so much better. It wasn’t even the knowledge of how viciously Clara had vexed him in life, it was the look in his friend’s eyes as they had lowered her casket into the grave—the look that said she would continue to vex him in death—that Jason found so unforgivable. Marshall deserved to have peace, but that seemed unlikely to happen.

And what about himself? Lady E. had ignored him after the funeral. She might not even have seen him, for all the attention she showed him. He closed his office door, hanging his hat on its hook, and dragged himself across the room to flop into his desk chair. At least his office was clean and organized. Flossie had seen to that.

He sprawled in his chair, arms and legs spread as though he were a child in a meadow. Beautiful, competent, graceful Flossie, who’s eyes saw right through him and whose body tempted him with every movement she made. Even her unflattering, black staff uniform, with its starched white apron and cap, couldn’t conceal the tempting shape of her.

Jason didn’t even try to stop his body’s reaction to the mental image of Flossie, the memory of her scent when she stood close, the sizzle of the spark in her eyes as she tackled task after task. He closed his eyes, letting out a breath, and contemplated reaching a hand into his trousers to relieve the pressure. Lord knew he’d contemplated Flossie’s lovely visage enough times while doing just that in the last week. What could be the harm in indulging in fantasy to ease his misery?

He reached for the buttons on his coat.

A knock on the door stopped him cold. His eyes flew open. Lightning and guilt jolted through his veins. He gritted his teeth and scooted his chair closer to his desk, hiding from the waist down.

“Who is it?” he barked.

“Flossie, sir.”

“Oh God.” He lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut over the shame that washed through him. Flossie, who he had been inches away from abusing himself over, who he was quite certain could see his thoughts.

He took in a breath. “Come in.”

As the door opened and Flossie stepped inside, Jason forced his back straight and his limbs rigid. He could make it through this interview. He would hear her concern, then send her on her way, even if he had to be rude to do it.

Flossie shut the door.

Jason began to shake. He was trapped with her. Her uniform was crisp and tidy, her cap in place over jet-black hair, but the soft pink of her cheeks flared to a deep red, and she kept her eyes downcast. Heaven help him, she was anxious. Flossie was never anxious. Flossie faced the world head-on, as immutable and undeniable as the earth itself. If she was unnerved, he couldn’t possibly survive.

“What?” he snapped in the desperate hope it would make her go away.

She stepped as though walking on needles to the front of his desk. Once in place, mere feet away from him, she cleared her throat and raised her eyes to meet his. “Sir.”

His palms went damp sweat. His groin ached. God help him, the bottom two buttons of his coat were undone. His shaking grew worse, and he rested his hands on his desktop to steady them.

“Well?” he growled. Please. Please let her leave before he unmanned himself.

She took a breath, those clear blue eyes of hers sharp and intense. “Sir, Mr. Throckmorton, I was in the churchyard earlier, after the funeral.” Her color peeked and her eyes shone. “I received a letter from my sister, you see, and I…I was reading it in the hedge maze.”

He had only a split-second of warning, like the buzz just before lightning struck.

“I overheard your conversation with Mr. Smith. All of it.”

Jason’s heart stopped beating and his lungs seized up. Time stood still.

Then, all at once, like the hand of fate pushing him hard off a cliff, his heart thundered and every emotion he had fought to hide from and suppress slammed into him at once.

“Oh God,” he croaked, slumping forward and hiding his face in his hands. He would have climbed under his desk and hid from her entirely if he could have. His secret was out, and his life was over. Flossie—Flossie—knew.

“I want you to know that I do not hold it against you,” she went on as he continued to hide his face, wishing more and more he could dissolve into the floor. “I heard everything you said, including that this is some sort of illness. It’s not your fault.”

He heard a swish of fabric and felt her move closer to the edge of the desk, closer to him.

“I can only imagine the sort of pain you must be in. It breaks my heart to think about it.”

Breaks her heart? How could she even think to weep over the monster he was?

“But it occurs to me, sir, that we are in a unique position to help one another,” she finished.

“Help one another?” he asked, face still in his hands. He would rather die than meet her eyes in that moment.

“Yes.” She came closer still. “The letter I received from my sister,” she continued in a breathless rush. “My family is in trouble. My nieces and nephews were ill and it drained their savings. They are desperate for money, or else they may lose their home and my nephew may be forced out of school to be sent to work.”

“Are you bribing me?” he asked, sounding more like a wail, still hiding in his hands.

“No! No, sir, I would never dream of that. You misunderstand,” she rushed on. “No, I…I am proposing that you take me as your mistress in exchange for an increase in my wages.”

For the second time in a handful of minutes, it felt as though the air had been sucked from Jason’s lungs and the world had stopped turning. He jerked to look up at her, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. There was no possible way that he had just heard what he thought he’d just heard. Flossie—bold, imperturbable Flossie—offering herself as a sacrifice to his lust? His jaw worked, but he couldn’t force a single word out.

“Please hear me out, sir,” she rushed on, leaning even closer. Her face was bright red now and her breath came in short gasps that pushed her chest against the black of her dress. “I know that what I am proposing is scandalous and shocking, but you posed the question at the churchyard, and now I must answer it.”

“Question?” His voice was hoarse and distant. His mind was just as distant, as though the scene unfolding around him was a dream.

“You asked what kind of woman would become your mistress, what kind would be willing to be at your beck and call,” she pushed on, gaining steam. “I am that kind of woman.”

She was not. Nothing about her was base enough to take him on. She was intelligent and quick. She could have any man she wanted. Honorably. She was wrong.

He was still too stunned to tell her so.

“I have secrets of my own, sir,” she said, rocking back and lowering her eyes. “You need not worry that you would be spoiling an innocent or desecrating the morals of a good woman. I am not innocent and I am not good.”

Yes you are, he wanted to shout at her. He wanted to order her to leave the room and save herself, but he couldn’t. He was mesmerized by the pain in her eyes when she glanced up to him once more.

“I have no qualms about offering myself to you in exchange for money, because I have done the same before.” She snapped her eyes down as soon as her confession was made.

No, she couldn’t have. She must have been mistaken. Flossie was not the kind of girl to make herself a whore for any man, not even for him.

But that was exactly what she was saying, what she was offering.

“Explain,” he said, barely able to put breath behind the word.

She nodded, and dragged her eyes up to meet his. Jason watched as resolution settled over her. She stood straighter, strong.

“My family has been in trouble before,” she confessed. “A few years ago, when my sister’s husband was dying and she was close to giving birth to their youngest of five children, money was tight. There was little they could do. I was sending home as much as I could from my wages at Crestmont Grange, but more was desperately needed.” She swallowed. “That was when Mr. Orwell, my lord’s valet, whispered in my ear that he would give me a shilling if I showed him a good time.”

Jason would kill the man. He would track him down and make him rue the day he touched Flossie.

“It was the easiest shilling I’ve ever made,” Flossie went on with a twist of a smile that quickly died. She spread her hands, and Jason saw that she too was trembling. “It became a regular arrangement. A few of the footmen found out about it…and I came to arrangements with them as well. Then Edward, my sister’s husband, died, and Betsy and the children moved in with my parents. The need wasn’t there anymore, so I stopped. But the offers and the suggestions,” she took a breath, “the occasional demands that I was not in a position to say no to, continued.”

She paused. He wanted to say something. He wanted to desperately to defend her and call every one of those men blackguards and bastards to take advantage of her, but his throat had closed up. He didn’t dare to condemn the men who had done the very thing that every fiber of his being wanted to do now.

“You asked me when I first came here why I would leave a good job in service to work at a hotel,” she went on, the gravity in her voice making her strong in spite of what she was saying. “That is why. I wanted to get away from all that, to start over. But I failed to take into account that the problems which beset me once before could beset me again. Only this time, even though I can find no solution to my family’s woes but the one that nearly destroyed me before, this time I feel as though my desperation can, in some small way, bring hope and respite to another.” She took a step forward, resting her hands on Jason’s desk. “Please, sir. Please take me up on this offer. I can’t bear to see the way you suffer. I saw it from the start, long before I overheard your confession in the churchyard.”

She had. He was certain she had. He had seen it in those eyes of hers, peeling back every defense he had worked to build up.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I knew there was a way that I could help you, but did nothing. And you may be the last hope I have of security for my family. Does it not cheer you somewhat to know that the misfortune of two such as us could be the solution to the problems of a few, well-deserving others?”

If he wasn’t already speechless, that would have knocked every word right out of his head. Jason wasn’t sure if he should run in terror from the woman in front of him or if he should fall at her feet and worship her as the goddess she was. He should send her as far away from him as he could, pay for her passage to Australia, if it would save her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t for one simple, devastating reason.

He wanted her.

More than anything.

“Please do not look at me as an innocent maiden who does not know what she is doing,” she made her final arguments. “I do know what I am proposing. I am not a pure virgin. I can assure you that I will conduct myself with the utmost discretion. No one will know. I already live under your roof and am around you for much of the day. It will be a small thing to extend the nature of our connection, and not a soul in this hotel or out of it will have a single reason to think anything untoward is going on between us. You have my word on that.”

She was right. Terrifying as it was, she was absolutely right. No one would blink an eyelash if they saw the two of them conversing. She’d been in his office, straightening his belongings, with the full knowledge of the rest of the staff. The two of them had been alone in a room with the door closed, as they were now, and not one person had thought anything of it. As a maid, she had every reason to be anywhere in the hotel at any time of day or night. If she was seen in the hall outside of the door to his room, she could say she had been called to attend to a guest. More than that, if she was seen going into or coming out of his suite at any time, she could say she was fetching clean linens or shaving soap or even cake from the kitchens for him. It would be unusual, but it wouldn’t be unexplainable. Her alibi was built into the very nature of the job she performed in his employ.

Worst of all, in the lone week that he had known her, Jason had come to trust Flossie with his life. It was a shock to realize it, but there it was. She was the solution to his torment.

“Come to my apartment at midnight,” he said, hoarse and full of disbelief. He didn’t know where he found the will to say it. But it was said.

“Thank you, sir,” she breathed out on a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” Her eyes went glassy with tears, and she smiled.

Smiled and wept because she had just agreed to martyr herself in his bed.

“Go,” he croaked, his shaking growing worse by the second.

“Yes, sir.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, then turned and swished out of the room.

The moment she shut his office door behind her, Jason let out a breath and the unbearable tension that had strangled him. He collapsed onto the desktop, his head buried in the crook of his arm. He wanted to weep, to pour out the sorrow he felt for himself at everything he was about to do, but he couldn’t. Because underneath the dread and the shame and the gloom, a seed of happiness and relief blossomed in him.

Thank God above for Flossie Stowe.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Jason sat at his desk, completely bewildered, staring at the far wall, at the pictures Flossie had hung just a few days before after organizing his business. His mind was in a million pieces. He couldn’t have accomplished anything even if he’d tried. It wasn’t until Samuel knocked on his door—scaring him out of his wits—and brought him an invoice that needed to be signed that he pushed himself out of his chair and out of his office. He needed to move, to leave the fear and the expectation behind for just a few minutes.

As he crossed through the lobby again on his way out to the garden, he caught sight of Flossie, working with Dora in the dining room. He couldn’t bear to look at her, didn’t dare lest he give himself away. He bolted for the outdoors, marching down the street to the livery. He had his horse saddled, and for the next few hours, until afternoon bled into twilight and twilight hushed to evening, he rode as hard as he pleased, giving his mount full head.

Even that wasn’t enough. He returned to the hotel after dark, marching straight up to his apartment without looking at or speaking a word to anyone else. He took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time, turning left at the top and striding around the corner. The door to his suite looked like that of every other guestroom, save for the fact that it did not bear a number. It stood in the middle of the juncture between the hotel’s two wings.

The suite itself was directly above his office and the storeroom beside it. It was every bit as luxurious as the grand suites at the end of each hall in the building’s two wings. He’d spared no expense for himself, and in addition to electric lights, he had installed a complete bathroom with a flush toilet and large porcelain tub. He went straight to that tub and turned on the taps, drawing himself a bath. If he was going to damn himself and Flossie together, the least he could do was wash himself first.

He bathed, then he dressed again. He shaved as if starting his day instead of ending it. He checked his bedroom, stripping his bed and making it again with clean sheets. He opened the windows in his bedroom to let the fresh air in, then closed them again, worried that if he truly did lose control and made sounds, anyone who happened to be in the garden would hear them. He paced around the apartment, straightening books on the shelf and making sure the furniture was in perfect alignment with such intensity, that in short order he was drenched in sweat again.

Then the knock came.

He held his breath, sprinting for the door. Through the peephole, he saw Flossie standing in the hallway, still dressed in her uniform. He threw open the door, beckoned desperately for her to come in, then shut it fast and as silently as he could. He turned, pressing his back against the door, panting like a trapped animal.

“You came,” he said.

“I did,” she answered with a shy smile.

He was going straight to hell for this, damn every part of him. No, damn just one part of him. Either way, he was going straight to hell.

“I wasn’t sure if you would,” he said, feeling as lame as he sounded.

She shook her head. “Once my mind is made up, sir, it stays made up.”

“I see.”

He stood there. Paralyzed. Aching. He couldn’t breathe, but how his heart pounded!

Seconds ticked by, feeling like hours. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

She took a half step toward him. “Would you like me to….” She swallowed, her shaking hands lifting and reaching for the top button of his coat.

His coat, his armor, which he’d donned again after taking a bath, as if he was going out and not staying right where he was. His breath came in tight, shallow gasps as she undid the top button, sliding the thick ebony through its woolen loop. She moved down to the next one, repeating the process, then the next one. Her hands hovered at the level of his stomach, tied in knots as it was, then his abdomen, tight as a drum, then lower. He stifled a cry of fear and pleasure as she undid the button over his erection, then moved to undo the final button. Then her hands lifted again to push aside the thick wool as though drawing back curtains to reveal the horror of the freak show.

Sure enough, his trousers were tented, beyond obvious. The white cotton of his shirt was damp under his arms. She looked up at him, sympathy—no, pity—in her eyes. Those eyes shone a deeper blue now than they had in the daylight.

“It’s all right.” She spoke softly, resting a hand over the fury that was his beating heart.

“No, it’s not,” he said, his voice weak.

She smiled, standing close enough to him that he was certain she could feel the shame as it poured off of him. “You’re only wearing a shirt,” she said.

“I…I didn’t think more was needed.”

“I had hoped to see one of your waistcoats.” He blinked, and she went on. “I see only the slightest glimpse of the collar, but I can tell that they are fine.”

“My waistcoats?”

“Yes.” She lowered her eyes. “But I understand.”

Of course she could. How could she not when he was stiff as a flagpole, mere inches from her.

All at once, the dam broke.

“I’m so sorry for this, Flossie,” he breathed out in a torrent. “I’m sorry for all of this. I shouldn’t put you in this position, but if you heard me at the churchyard, then you heard me say that I think I shall go mad if something isn’t done.”

“I know.”

“The truth of it is, I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his.

“How could I not?” he went on. “You’re beautiful and clever. You see right through me. I’ve wanted to kiss you and touch you and possess you in every way possible, but the truth is, I’m a terrible lover. Just wretched. I don’t have the patience for it, only the drive. Forgive me for being a selfish brute, unable to bring you the pleasure you deserve. It’s such a waste, such a bloody, awful waste.”

“Ssh,” she silenced him, touching her fingertips to his lips.

If he didn’t get her into his bed soon, the whole thing would be even more embarrassing than it was already doomed to be.

“I have an extensive collection of French letters,” he informed her, grasping for the last possible bit of sense he could find. “So you will have no fear of unwanted pregnancy. And if the worst does happen, I swear to you, I will provide for whatever you decide to do about it. I will not abandon you simply because I am sated.”

“I know,” she smiled. “That’s the only reason I have considered this. I know I can trust you.”

No one had ever spoken words so far from the truth in his life. But they were all he had to hold onto. They were all that would keep him from losing his mind and himself with it.

“Then will you be so, so kind as to accompany me to the bedroom,” he whispered.

“I will,” she said.

She took his hand and led him on. She led him, as if she knew the way.

Jason hadn’t allowed another soul into his suite since the crew that had installed its furnishings. He had completed decorating himself. He made his own bed, folded his own clothes, and did his own tidying. It was soothing to do so, to know that this intimate space was completely private. Having Flossie there now, crossing through the front room to the bedroom as though she had been there a hundred times before, was as unnerving as it was intriguing.

He’d kept the light on in the bedroom, had left the corner of the bedclothes turned down when he’d made the bed. He’d even arranged a selection of French letters on the bedside table, like the fool he was. Everything was in place, waiting, beckoning. He shut the door, closing them an even smaller world of intimacy.

Flossie turned to face him. “Would you like me to….”

“What?” He’d never been so nervous in his life.

“Would you like me to undress you?” she asked.

Hot embarrassment flooded him, from face to toes. “No, no, I can manage.”

“Let me help with your coat, at least,” she said and reached for his shoulders.

He caught his breath as she slid her hands under the lapels and pushed it down his arms. As the weight left him and air rushed in around him, he thought he might float away, all grounding lost. Forget the rest of his clothes, as Flossie stepped around to take the coat from behind him, searching for a place to hang it, he felt naked, horribly exposed. His hands trembled as he undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged out of his suspenders.

Damn him, he had never been this nervous with any of the countless whores he’d bedded. But then, Flossie was no whore, no matter what she said about herself. She would argue with him, but she was as honest a woman as they came. The first honest woman he had ever been with, God help him. He lifted his shirt over his head, folded it, and draped it over the back of the chair in the corner of the room.

When he turned around, Flossie had removed her apron and unfastened the buttons down the back of her simple black dress. His mouth went dry as she shrugged it off, tugging the sleeves off over her hands. Her shape was every bit as perfect as he’d fantasized. Her shoulders were creamy smooth, and the swell of her breasts as the strained against her corset begged him to touch them. She stepped out of the dress, revealing long, shapely legs clad with simple black wool stockings held up by garters.

She must have felt him looking, for she peeked up at him. Her eyes rested on his bare chest for a moment. She must have liked what she saw. Her cheeks colored and she smiled. He knew he was fit. He kept himself that way on purpose, but it seemed too much to imagine that she thought he was attractive. She, on the other hand, was gorgeous.

He drew in a breath when she started on the hooks of her corset. She stopped, meeting his eyes.

“I’m sorry, did you want to?” Her question faded.

He shook his head, unable to speak. To undress her himself would be an act far too intimate for what he knew would come next. He would be a bloody fool if he promised her anything even close to romance.

As soon as she lowered her head to focus on unhooking her corset, he turned and removed his trousers. His cock sprung free as he did, reminding him of just what kind of a monster he was. Shame trickled down his spine as he sidestepped to the bed, sliding between the sheets before Flossie could see his ugliness.

It didn’t help that as soon as he was settled, he looked up at her just as she was drawing her chemise up over her head. He ached at the sight of her breasts, full and round with rose-hued nipples, already pert with anticipation. Her stomach was flat, the faintest line of dark hair pointing below the waist of her drawers. As soon as her chemise was off, she bent to remove those drawers and the stocking with them. When she straightened, treating him to the full sight of her naked body, she removed her cap and took the pins from her hair. It fell in a cascade of black waves down her back.

He wouldn’t last two minutes.

He tried to tell her how beautiful she was, but the only sound that emanated from him was a desperate groan.

“It’s all right,” she said, crossing to the bed and climbing in beside him.

He realized too late that his expression was contorted into fear and confusion. She settled on her back, lifting a hand to lay along the side of his face, cradling his jaw. She might as well have been cradling his heart.

“We have an understanding,” she said, her fingertips raising tingles along his cheek. “We are here to help one another. I am here for you to calm the torment within you. Think of nothing but that.”

He shook his head, sorrow mingling with the tangle of emotions he was certain he would never escape. “You have no idea what that means, no idea what I am capable of at my worst.”

“Then show me,” she said. So simple, so devastating.

He couldn’t resist kissing her. Still wound tighter than a spring, he shifted to cover her, bringing his mouth down over hers. The first contact of his lips to hers was like the burst of sunlight coming out from behind a cloud. Her lips were so soft, and try as he did to be gentle with her, the strength of his need wouldn’t let him. He devoured her like a man bent on destruction, taking what he wanted from her. She gave it willingly, opening for him and letting him invade her, sliding her tongue along his.

Her arms rested around his sides, embracing him.

“Wait.” He stopped, held himself above her at arm’s length. The tell-tale signs of his imminent loss of control were already gathering in his groin.

“What?” she asked, breathless.

He nodded to his side table. “The French letter. I have to put it on.”

She blinked rapidly and twisted to look at the row of small packages on the table. “Oh.” She reached for one, bringing it to hold between them. “How does it work?”

The storm rolled back for a moment, replaced by practicality. Jason shifted to the side, taking the packet from her and opening it.

“It’s a sheath, you see,” he explained, tossing the envelope back onto the table. “Sheepskin.”

“I don’t understand,” she frowned, touching the rolled edge.

It was as intimate as if she’d touched him. He swallowed.

“It’s easier to fit it into place if it begins rolled up like this.”

She frowned. “Will you show me?”

His breath caught. “Show you?” That would involve showing her his cock. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“It’s all right,” she repeated the phrase that he had yet to believe. He was too stunned to stop her when she took the condom from him and moved to push the bedclothes back. “Show me how to put it on?”

He caught her hand on the bedclothes roughly, holding them closed, panic racing through him. She gasped at the suddenness of his movement, or at the strength of his grip on her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re not ready to show me.”

Damn her for understanding his shame. And bless her. She handed the condom over.

As he reached beneath the covers to put it on, she said, “You know that if we continue with this arrangement, I will see eventually.”

“I know,” he sighed, finishing with the condom and twisting to his side to face her, “but I’m not ready yet.”

She reached for him, helping him to resume his position above her. “I promise you, I won’t find you ugly or frightening,” she said. “And it’s nothing I haven’t seen or felt before.”

His face twitched to a frown, and a piece of the murderous rage for the men she’d been with before punched through him. He was too ashamed to hold onto it, though. Too ashamed and too bowled over by the tenderness in her voice and body. Her arms slipped around him, hands spreading from his hips to his sides and up his back in a delicious dance that left him trembling and hungry for more. She moved her legs apart, along his, allowing him to inch closer to his goal. Everything about her was accommodating in the extreme.

He kissed her again, wishing to God he could enjoy it. He wanted to revel in her mouth, taste her sweetness with long, leisurely exploration. He wanted to run his hands along her curves, learning her body in all its glory. He wanted to suckle her breasts, tease her nipples to hard points, and then use his tongue to play with them. Most of all, he wanted to give her enough pleasure to leave her limp and sighing his name with passion. But he couldn’t stand the pressure, in his groin or in his brain.

He found her entrance—blessedly wet and ready—and pushed into her. God in heaven, it felt so good that he cried out with the joy of it. He sank himself as deep as he could into the hot folds of her. Her arms tightened around him and he felt her gasp through his whole body. He prayed that he hadn’t hurt her, but before he could consider the point, he withdrew and thrust again, then again, working himself into a frenzied rhythm that left him sweating and weeping with the pure relief of it.

True to his predictions, he came hard in less than a minute. His body was so primed and ready for an orgasm that it rushed over him, causing him to cry out as his groin convulsed with pleasure. The release left him senseless and weak, but filled with a sense of well-being that nothing else gave him.

It was pitiful that it had come so fast, and devastating that it was already leaving him. As the rush subsided, he relaxed over top of Flossie, cock still inside of her, more at peace than he’d been in months. His muscles unclenched, and his breathing gradually slowed. At last, he was calm, the demons fed and sated, and for this small moment, he could be free.

It was only when he realized that he could be crushing Flossie, his head tucked into the softness of the pillow beside hers with the scent of her hair in his nose, that he began to tense again. He started to move off of her, shame creeping back over him.

“No,” she gasped, tightening her arms around him.

A jolt of shock that felt distant in his post-coital state jarred him. “No?”

He had already shifted to his side, so she followed him, keeping her arms around him as she draped a leg over his. They were still intimately joined.

“You were so relaxed just after,” she said, her voice small.

“Spent,” he sighed. “It won’t last. It never does.”

“I liked it.”

He focused on her eyes, finally seeing her now that what was done was done. She wore her soul in the blue depths of those eyes, and right then her soul was filled with compassion. He didn’t deserve it, not after what he’d just done to her. Hell, he was still inside of her, though if he didn’t ameliorate that situation quickly, the condom would have no point.

In spite of her protest, he slipped out of her, reaching beneath the covers to remove the condom. He twisted away from her to deposit it on the floor—where he would retrieve it for cleaning later—and to wipe any remaining semen on the sheets. Then he fell to his back as reality pressed down on him once more, as it did after every cheap encounter.

With one difference. Unlike the whores of his past, Flossie did not get out of bed to collect her money and be gone. She rested on her side, one arm under her head, her black hair flowing around her head and shoulders like a halo. She watched him, as if waiting for him to make a move.

He twisted his head to study her in return, his heart thudding with shame and longing. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to stroke her face and explore the curves of her that his desperation had not allowed him before. He just wanted to hold her, but fear and the horrific realization that he was already growing hard with desire for her again kept him frozen.

She frowned. “Your face just changed. What is it?”

He swallowed, debating whether it would be possible to lie to her.

He decided it wouldn’t just be impossible, it would be pointless.

“I already want you again,” he confessed.

A moment of surprise twitched across her face. Then she surged against him, taking him back into her arms.

“Does it usually come upon you again so soon after satisfaction?” she asked.

He wanted to laugh at her ability to make such a question seem so innocent. “No, not usually,” he said.

“Perhaps it is because of the newness of it,” she suggested.

“Perhaps.” It could be that or it could be that now that he had a taste of her, he wanted to gorge on her.

For all their so-called noble efforts, they could have just made his problem much, much worse.

She surprised him by stretching over him and reaching for the bedside table. The friction of her soft body across his rough and weary one only pushed his desire higher. She took another of the condoms, removed its envelope, and handed it to him.

“You have quite a few of these,” she said. “We’ll use as many as you need to in order to find peace tonight.”

“Flossie.” He said her name as a denial and as a prayer, and most of all as an endearment. “You can’t just lie there and let me use you over and over tonight.”

“I can and I will,” she said.

“But who knows how long it could take? If you heard me in the churchyard, then you know that this thing that possesses me is not some simple lust that can be easily sated.”

“You’re bound to exhaust yourself at some point.”

She was teasing him. At a time like this, in the position she was in—naked, in his bed, while his erection was growing by the second, and the condom was in his hand—she was teasing him.

“Flossie, you are going to regret this.” Regret it and hate him as the monster he was.

And yet, she smiled. “You’re a handsome man, Mr. Throckmorton, and you have a well-formed body. Do you imagine that men are the only creatures who experience desire?”

“I….” His jaw dropped open. He was not even going to try to interpret what she could mean by that. There were London whores whose job it was to satisfy men who had grown exhausted of the intensity of his body’s demands. Flossie couldn’t possibly know what she was talking about.

“I said I would help you, sir, and I intend to,” she went on. “Let’s face this together, one impulse at a time.”

The burst of emotion that fluttered through his chest was so intense that he didn’t dare name it. He reached between the sheets, between their bodies, to roll the fresh condom on. The clock on his bureau said only twenty past twelve. He would give himself until three o’clock, no matter how many times it took or how unsatisfied he was at the end of it, then he would send Flossie away.

If he could.

As he pulled her into his arms and positioned himself between her legs again, kissing her with the barest fraction more control this time, he had the pervasive feeling that he may never be able to send Flossie away from him. Forever.